<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>not the same, but even by prettybrilliantfunny</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27854094">not the same, but even</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/prettybrilliantfunny/pseuds/prettybrilliantfunny'>prettybrilliantfunny</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Red Queen Series - Victoria Aveyard</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>F/M, Spoilers for King's Cage, that one scene in King's Cage</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 22:40:19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,259</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27854094</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/prettybrilliantfunny/pseuds/prettybrilliantfunny</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>A small coda to That Scene in "King's Cage."  </p><p>It's a dangerous game they're playing. Both of them should have killed the other when they had the chance.  (And there have been so many chances.) Unable to escape whatever is binding them together, they hurt each other any way they can.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Mare Barrow/Maven Calore</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>41</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>not the same, but even</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <hr/><p> </p><p>The clink of the flamemaker bracelets hitting the floor fills the room. A taunt in bands of silver.  An <em> opportunity. </em></p><p>I surprise myself when I take a step closer to the edge of the tub. Not Maven, though. He expected I would, knew how his thinly-veiled dare would draw me in, compel me against the better judgment I’ve worked so hard to acquire since the last time we were in this palace together. I reach for him, and I wish my hand wasn’t shaking.  </p><p>Still, it’s steady when it curls against his throat. </p><p>I can feel his heartbeat beneath my thumb steadily pulsing, unfazed by my brazen action. What it must be like in his head. I don’t dare guess. It’s enough to know that Elara’s been whispering there for years, long before he ever met me, before his thoughts were ever able to become his own. </p><p>I find Maven’s hand without looking and a tremor goes through him at the touch, though he bore my hand at his throat without blinking.  He always had such beautiful hands--another piece of him I couldn’t quite cut away and forget; memories of his fingers twined with mine as we danced, running through my hair in the dark of the theater box. Water drips down my forearm, under the manacles, dampening my sleeve. Maven doesn’t resist as I lift his hand, pale and chilled by the air. He only stares, those balefire eyes locked with mine, trying to look through them, through me--to know me and be one step ahead.</p><p><em> Not this time, Maven </em>, I think. And when I press those slender fingers of his around my neck, I see the first flicker of emotion in those eyes.</p><p><em> Want</em>.</p><p>“Kill me.”</p><p>He makes no move to strangle me. To tighten his grip. But he doesn’t pull away, doesn’t fight against the hand holding his there. <em> My hand </em>. Weak from the leaching weight of Silent Stone, from smashing plates against walls--against kings that will never let me out.  </p><p>“<em> Kill me </em>.” It’s a command, and I shove the full weight of Mareena’s steel-sharp tongue behind it.  (My own hand is still at his throat, and I squeeze--just a little, just enough to force him to action--but he doesn’t take the bait, doesn’t retreat or take control).  I don’t understand him.  I don’t understand myself.  </p><p>He covers my hand, and the burning heat of it shocks me, my fingers spreading wider.  The bathwater must be scalding. His pulse doesn’t waver</p><p><em> Is this how it’s always going to be? </em> All but holding the knife to each other’s throats, both of us daring the other and neither one of us able to cross the line?--to do what so desperately must be done?  </p><p>As long as Maven’s alive, I’ll never know peace; I’ll never be <em> safe </em>. There’s a tether between us, a chain wound tight with our shared lies and history and blood, and I know now--there’s nowhere we could go and escape the pull of that tether. However far I get, I’ll always get dragged back, or him to me. We’re bound together, for whatever Maven feels for me--however Elara twisted it--it was love once.  I know that for certain; though, it brings me no comfort.</p><p>Love makes monsters the same as hate. I’m proof enough of that. </p><p>Because it doesn’t matter if I’m stronger than him. If I’m faster. If I could drown the only person keeping me alive in this palace of traitors and killers and still make it out of Whitefire with my head attached.  None of that makes any difference.</p><p>Because I don’t want to kill him.</p><p>Not the boy I thought he was; not the twisted king he’s become.</p><p>“So we’re both cowards.” I inhale slowly, steadying myself, and Maven sighs.</p><p>“In more ways than one.”</p><p>And just like that, the moment breaks.  Exhaustion rolls over me, and I’m <em> tired </em>. Of this place, of this game we keep playing, of the confusing ache I feel.  I drop my hands, bruised and darkening around the wrists from the strain of the manacles, and though I can still feel the burn of his touch, the water in the bath is stone cold.</p><p>On my throat, Maven’s hand lingers.</p><p>Still that gentle curl of fingers, without pressure or threat, but I can’t help the way my breath hitches.  An adrenaline spike of fear (of hope?) pins me, when any sensible person would run, and my eyes snap to his.  A touch--featherlight--brushes my skin. His thumb skates along the edge of my jaw, a caress so faint I think I’m imagining it--until I see his eyes drop to the point of contact, widening ever so slightly. As if he’s surprised even himself.</p><p>The urge to say something--anything--compels me, and I unstick my tongue to speak--when his grip tightens around my throat. Fear lances through me. Panic claws at my chest and I strain for one desperate gasp that makes no sound.  Then the pressure’s gone, and Maven’s pulling away--his face turned aside.</p><p>Something like disappointment twists sour in my stomach, and I feel sick.  Or maybe it’s hope, still fluttering foolishly in the wake of Maven’s fire; I don’t know.  He looks smaller somehow, in the wake of his efforts; more boy than monster. And the part of me that learned spite and pain under the boots of Silver soldiers, the part of me that Cal doesn’t want to believe was there long before I ever fell into that arena, wants to hurt him. To find the knife that perfectly fits the palm of my hand and <em> twist </em>.</p><p>“I could have done it, you know.” </p><p>Maven stills. </p><p>I have his attention now. He says nothing, his gaze sliding to mine, but I can almost hear the gears turning over in his head, trying to anticipate what I’ll say next. He’s trying to read me again. Moves and countermoves. But there’s no need to guess: we’ve always used the truth to hurt each other.</p><p><br/>Twist.</p><p><br/>“Married you...”<br/><br/></p><p>His eyes flare and I feel burned through--but I don’t look away, and I don’t stop.</p><p><br/>Twist.</p><p><br/>“<em>Been happy.</em>”<br/><br/></p><p>Maven doesn’t flinch, but the words--spoken out loud--have carved something out of me. In hurting Maven, I’ve caught myself on the blade too. </p><p>But if so, I’ve gutted us both. I know it--know <em> him </em>. His fickle moods and childish rages, how his mask of stone hides his cruelty and malice. There’s no mask now; the effect of my strike is written clear across his face.  As I watch, his gaze goes distant, sliding away and locking on something I can’t see.  </p><p>For the first time, in a long time, he feels far away from me.</p><p>I wait, my heart beating high in my throat; for what?--I’m not sure.  But, finally, Maven speaks.</p><p>“Wouldn’t that have been something,” he says, voice quiet.</p><p>“Yes,” I answer, just as soft. </p><p><em> What could have been </em>.</p><p>“There’s the door.”</p><p>I try not to look back as I go, but I can’t help myself. Maven stares at the ceiling, lost in thought, his eyes still fixed on that distant point beyond my reach.  I wonder if he’s remembering the moments we stole together on the royal barge, the way our eyes always seemed to find each other across the training field; trying to pinpoint--as I’ve tried a thousand times--the moment where it could have all gone differently.  </p><p> </p><p>Perhaps he’s not looking back at all. </p>
  </div></div>
</body>
</html>